With My Body I Thee Worship
by Kizzia
Summary: When is a case not a case? When Sherlock decides that it's actually an opportunity for some "outdoor activities". Obviously. Johnlock slash written for the come at once 24 hour challenge, from the prompt "naughtiness high in the catalogue of grave sins".


**Author's Note:** Please be aware that this fic isn't intended to be blasphemous or sacrilegious but it could certainly be taken that way, since when you give me the words sins and grave in the same prompt I apparently immediately assume this means John and Sherlock need to have sex in an abandoned church.

As far as my own beliefs go, I think love, and any expression of love, is a beautiful thing that can only make the world a better place and so don't view this as something offensive. However, I fully realise that many people will not share my views. So, if you have issues with people having sex in places that had previously been used for religious practices, please don't read this.

This fic does, very loosely, follow on from "Never Too Late" - which I wrote for the Come at once challenge last spring - but it will make perfect sense read as a standalone.

* * *

Although the night outside is balmy, the stone wall radiates a chill at John's back. He isn't cold, yet, but his scar is starting to twinge, letting him know that he'll end up properly aching if they spend many more hours here.

'Here.' Sherlock's hands slide across John's back, easing him forward just enough for Sherlock to slip behind John and enfold him in his coat. 'Better?' Sherlock murmurs, pressing a kiss just under John's left ear. His right arm bands across John's chest and he rests his hand lightly just where the bullet entered John's left shoulder.

'Much.' John sighs softly as Sherlock's warmth starts to seep into his body. After a minute he allows his head to drop back onto Sherlock's right shoulder, muscles relaxing as he lets some of the madness of the day ebb away.

It had all started with Greg barging into the flat at six o'clock in the morning clutching a dog-eared magazine entitled "Fiona's Fancies –For All Your Naughty Needs" – which John might have found funny if the interruption hadn't meant neither he nor Sherlock's needs were met - and got progressively stranger from there. He still can't quite work out how the first victim mentioning the personal adds in the back of what is – in John's considered opinion, having had to read the thing from cover to cover - the world's least appealing sex aid catalogue, has lead to them staking out a derelict chapel at half past one in the morning but … Well, it's one step up from spending four hours phoning sex line after sex line, asking for someone called Generous Jack, and far, far better than what the previous four hours involved; visiting what felt like every sex club in Soho.

Not that he has a problem with the clubs themselves, mind, just the way practically every single person in them looked at Sherlock - like they wanted to eat him raw. Before he met Sherlock he'd never thought of himself as the jealous type but these days, especially on cases like this when Sherlock ends up decked out clothing that leaves nothing to the imagination – tonight's sartorial delight being a wine red silk shirt he literally couldn't button over his chest and skin-tight black leather trousers – he really has to work hard not to let his temper get the best of him. Getting arrested for assaulting innocent bystanders because he doesn't like the look in their eyes really isn't acceptable. So he supposes he should be grateful Sherlock decided the clubs were a waste of time and dragged him out here. At least in this shell of place there are only bats, rats and pigeons to worry about, none of which are going to earn his wrath by leering at Sherlock. He can't afford to get another ASBO, after all.

'I've never had sex outdoors,' Sherlock says suddenly, apropos of nothing, about half an hour later, voice low and dark and right next to John's ear.

'That's … nice,' John mutters, trying to ignore the spike of lust the words send pulsing through him. 'Not sure why you're mentioning it now.'

'Because the way you looked at all those people in the clubs was almost identical to the expression you had on your face last month, when I had to let those two students try and seduce me in Russell Square Gardens.'

'So?' John huffs, struggling to catch his breath. Sherlock's hands are moving over him - sweeping across his chest and then down, lightly caressing the tops of his thighs before moving up again, fingers tracing figures of eight over his abdomen - and he can't help but respond to the teasing touches.

'You said then it was never too late to try things, John. I want to try sex outdoors.'

'We're not outdoors.' John flutters a hand vaguely at the ruined walls around them only to press it tight against his mouth the next second. Sherlock's fingers have started circling his nipples and he barely manages to stifle his moan of pleasure when he pinches them lightly.

'A technicality,' Sherlock purrs, nipping at John's earlobe. 'We can see more sky than roof.'

'We're on a case.' John tries to sound stern but his knees are buckling under the twin assault of teeth and hands and his mouth doesn't want to co-operate with anything that doesn't involve pressing it against some part of Sherlock's anatomy.

'Our suspect has very defined patterns, John.' Sherlock's hands curl round John's hips, pulling his arse flush to Sherlock's groin, so John can feel exactly how much this is turning Sherlock on. 'Since she hasn't brought her latest victim here yet, I'm certain she isn't going to turn up toni … oh!'

John smiles into the gloom as he moves against Sherlock, grinding back with enough pressure to make things interesting but not enough to really satisfy. 'Definitely?'

'Mmmm … Ah … yes, definitely. Oh … more, John.'

John doesn't need another invitation, turning in the circle of Sherlock's arms and capturing Sherlock's mouth with his own, attacking the few shirt buttons managing to fulfil their function as he does so. Sherlock kisses back ferociously, all teeth and tongue and bruising lips, making John light-headed with want.

John could happily stay like this, being devoured and devouring in turn, for hours but Sherlock pulls back all too soon, his dilated pupils - framed by a thin circle of silver blue iris - glint wickedly in the moonlight streaming in from above.

'I want you naked, John.'

'I … uh ...' John's brain freezes for a moment as it dawns on him that when Sherlock said sex he wasn't just talking about mutual orgasms. His gaze flits over their surroundings, taking in the rotting pews to their left, the dirt encrusted floor under their feet, the huge cross on the far wall. 'Um … I … we're in a _church_.'

'A chapel. Which has been derelict for years. But,' Sherlock adds solemnly, 'there's the graveyard outside, if you'd prefer.'

John blinks up at Sherlock, completely lost for words, but then he sees the mischievous grin tugging at the corners of Sherlock's mouth and he can't help himself. It's just one small snort of laughter to begin with but then Sherlock starts to giggle too and there's no holding back. Their combined mirth rings out through the empty space more joyfully than a peal of church bells ever could.

'Come on,' Sherlock says, once they've managed to regain some semblance of control. 'It's cleaner over there, and more sheltered.'

John looks to where he's pointing and closes his eyes for a moment. 'You want to shag me where the altar stood.'

It's a statement rather than a question but Sherlock answers anyway, 'I do.'

Sherlock starts forward as he speaks, pulling John behind him. When they reach the raised dais Sherlock shrugs his off his coat and lays it on the floor, gesturing for John to do the same. Then he sinks gracefully down onto the makeshift bed and looks back up at John.

John just stares at him, drinking in the picture he makes. His shirt is completely unbuttoned and hanging off one shoulder, the exposed skin beneath glowing in the half light. His curls are feathered out round his head in all directions, his pupils now so dilated his eyes are black pools and his lips, slightly parted, are swollen from John's kisses.

_He looks like an angel_, John thinks as he manages to co-ordinate his legs enough to sit down at Sherlock's side, _a very debauched angel, granted, but an angel nonetheless_. Sherlock immediately cups John's face with both his hands and looks straight into his eyes.

'I want to worship you, John Watson. I want to strip you naked right here under the stars and use my body to wring every kind of rapture from your lips.'

The sincerity of Sherlock's tone combined with the intensity of his gaze sends flames of desire licking through John's veins. He can no more resist Sherlock now than he can voluntarily stop breathing.

'Fuck me,' he murmurs shakily.

'That _was_ my intent,' Sherlock says, smiling at John's reaction. The smile is soft and tender - not one that many people would ever expect to see on Sherlock's face – and makes John's heart ache for the sweetness of it.

'Please,' he says, well, tries to say. The word is more of a shaping of his lips than a true utterance but it doesn't matter, Sherlock understands; nodding in acquiescence as he releases John's head and starts undoing John's shirt. When John attempts to help he gently bats John's hands away.

'Let me, John.'

'Okay, love.'

John's hands fall back to his sides as he cedes control to Sherlock, enjoying being unclothed as if he were a precious gift, one that Sherlock savoured unwrapping. A small voice in the back of John's head points out that he should be feeling self conscious, given the fact they could be discovered at any moment, but he just isn't. He can't be, not when Sherlock's making sure to kiss or caress every inch of skin as he exposes it.

'Lie back now,' Sherlock instructs once he's got John completely naked. As John complies - making himself as comfortable as he can on the coats - Sherlock strips without ceremony and then, settling himself between John's legs, sets about taking John apart.

If you'd asked John before this moment whether having someone lick your feet would be erotic, he'd have laughed and emphatically denied it. Now, though, as Sherlock sucks his big toe, tongue laving the ball of his foot at the same time, John doesn't want him to ever stop. It feels like there's a direct link between his foot and his cock and, as he struggles to breathe through the groans that Sherlock's attentions are ripping from deep in his gut, he can't imagine anything _more_ erotic.

And then Sherlock stops, surprising a whimper of loss out of John.

'You are beautiful.' Sherlock speaks between bites and he works his way from John's ankle up his leg.

'So expressive,' he whispers when he reaches John's knee.

'So desperate,' he murmurs as he nuzzles the golden hair at the base of John's cock and John keens with need.

'What do you want, John?' Sherlock asks as he bites the slightly softer flesh covering John's abdomen, fingers dancing over John's body, playing him every bit as skilfully as he plays his violin. 'Tell me what you want.'

Sherlock's teasing touches, everywhere but where he needs them most, send cascades of pleasure through his body that are almost overwhelming. He can't think, can't speak, can't do anything but fight to fill his lungs with air, hands balling into fists as the need to touch himself becomes almost too much to bear.

'You,' he finally gasps. 'Want you.'

'You have me.'

Sherlock reaches to his left, out of John's line of sight, hand coming back holding a condom and packet of lube that, to John's sex fogged brain, seem to have appeared out of thin air.

'Where …?'

'I nicked them from the last club we visited.' Sherlock grins wolfishly at John as he rips the lube open and squeezes some onto his fingers. 'Didn't think they'd come in handy quite so soon.'

'Smug bastard,' John grumbles affectionately, but then his words fail him again, as Sherlock's fingers starting to circle his pucker.

'Don't hold back,' Sherlock orders as John bites his lip when the tip of Sherlock's index finger breaches him for the first time. 'I want to hear you. I want to hear what I'm doing to you.'

'F-fine, I … I'll … oh fuck! Sherlock!' John yells, as Sherlock finally closes his hand round John's cock and gives it one, slick stroke, 'God! Don't fucking stop!'

Sherlock doesn't, working his hands in counterpoint to each other, stoking and scissoring and stretching until is John is a writhing, sobbing, sweaty mess beneath him.

'Sherlock … please! I need … I need …'

'Me. I know.' Sherlock's voice is rich and low and trembling with desire as he swiftly rolls the condom on and uses the last of the lube to slick his aching cock. 'You can have me.'

'Yes,' John hisses as Sherlock begins pressing into him, canting his hips up and wrapping his legs round Sherlock's waist. 'Come one, Sherlock. M'not made of glass.'

'Not, you're not, are you,' Sherlock pants, tendons standing out on his arms as he resists John's attempts to control the pace for a moment. Then he yields, sliding inexorably down and in until he's flush against John and their both groaning at the intimacy of the contact.

'Can I move?' Sherlock bites out, eyes roaming John's face, whole body shaking as he fights his body's urge to take what it needs.

John heaves in one breath, then another, before reaching up and pushing Sherlock's curls back from his forehead. 'Yeah, love. Move.'

Sherlock doesn't need telling twice, settling into a rhythm that feels, to John, almost tidal – each roll of Sherlock's hips taking him that little bit deeper inside, bringing them both that little bit closer, until ….

'Oh God, I'm …Fuck I'm going to …' Heat is pooling in John's belly, coiling tightly through his cock and balls. Everything is coalescing to that one pure sweet point of almost-pain as Sherlock keeps thrusting, less controlled now, John's name a beautiful litany on his lips as they stare into each others eyes. They're teetering on the edge of glorious oblivion, suspended together in the moment. Then Sherlock pushes in just a little deeps and John calls out his name. It's enough, Sherlock's orgasm pulsing through him and John can't help but follow, wave upon wave of bliss swamping him. He can't keep his eyes open, can't breathe, can't do anything but babble his elation up towards the ruined roof.

When John comes back to himself Sherlock is slumped on top of him, face buried in the crook of John's neck, softly mouthing at John's collar bone. John smiles, smoothes one hand over Sherlock's hair, then kisses the side of his head. For a second he doesn't want to do anything but lie there, savouring the closeness, but then he registers the cold, hard floor beneath him, sees the cross on the wall and remembers exactly where they are.

'We're going to go to hell for this,' he mutters before he can stop himself.

'Fine by me,' Sherlock says, pushing himself up onto his elbows and grinning down at John, 'as long as we go together.'

'Deal,' John says, grinning back. Then, unable to resist, he arches up for another kiss.


End file.
